The poem as prey, as blood luscious, elusive. The poem as the locked room.
37 posts
What Am I?
What am I?
A strange thing to wonder
I'm the anger of my father,
And the silent cries of my mother.
I'm the broken pieces of childhood,
Of a once happy daughter.
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More Posts from Unlikelyanonymous
What can life offer anyway
That I can't have with you in death?
What feels more like home anyway
Than it does besides your grave?
And I wonder
Your voice so sweet through a telephone.
Your presence is a comfort, oh it feels like home.
Dancing on your roof while it's raining above.
And i wonder if you feel it grow.
Your touch like velvet, would I ever refrain?
Honey brown eyes, oh they drive me insane.
A nasty chase and we meet again.
And I wonder if you'd like to stay.
Your skin shines bright like an afterglow.
Your laugh's a symphony, oh I wish I could own.
Your love is a cure, I'm a ruined soul.
And I wonder if you'll ever know.
Him
He was butterflies.
He was anxiety.
He was silent cries.
He was that feeling of empty.
He was reliance.
He was trouble.
He was treacherous.
He was loyal.
He was steady.
He was unstable.
He was needy.
He was unpredictable.
He was my almost lover.
He was a goddamn nightmare.
He was a million little emotions.
Mixed into a disconsolate one.
Spring is awaking from its slumber 🤍💐🌾
What can life offer anyway
That I can't have with you in death?
What feels more like home anyway
Than it does besides your grave?
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